Last Chance
by LM Simpson
Summary: Next Gen/Reunion Fic. Tintin is terminally ill and wants nothing more than to be reunited with the captain. His grandson is going to make sure that happens, no matter what gets in his way.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Last Chance  
**Author: **LM Simpson (Kady the Red Panda)  
**Pairing(s): **Tintin/Haddock, implied OC/OC  
**Rating: **M  
**Warning(s): **slash, drug use, character death, terminal illness, language  
**Disclaimer: **I am not associated with Moulinsart. The only characters I own are the ones I made up, particularly Martin, Reggie, and Colleen.**  
Other tidbits: **I'll update this more sporadically than "Fishes." There will be an older Colleen here, but reading "Fishes Out of Water (which is still ongoing anyway)" will not be required. She's more so a minor character in this anyway. I just thought that since this is "next gen" why not keep things tidy and include her?

**Chapter One**

1111

I hate seeing Grandpa like this.

When I was a kid he was always so happy and optimistic. I always beamed when he was around. Even if you were having a super cruddy day you were guaranteed to smile at least once because he was always there bringing the sunshine in. _You_ may not have seen it, but Grandpa Tintin could find it under all that gray and blue and tug it out from the sky and into the room. He was gifted like that.

But right now, the sky is overcast. Ever since we got the diagnosis—advanced stage pancreatic cancer—ten months ago all he wants to do is stare out the same bedroom window all day, sitting on a rickety maple rocking chair with his bald wrinkled scalp facing me. Occasionally he mumbles about something, low enough so even I can't hear. Or he whimpers or asks for a drink—concerning because he never drinks—but he never does much else.

He does not even want to hold and pet his favorite wire fox terrier, a spunky lil fellow dubbed Snowy the Seventh, anymore. Oh, that dog tries. He will claw and whine at a suspended brown pant leg, but Grandpa doesn't respond. Only on those days that he's too sick to get out of bed will he allow me to place him on his lap. The dog, even then, never gets hugged or petted. Grandpa just sits listlessly under the buttercup printed comforter and the dog and stares his clear bluish green eyes towards a ceiling corner.

I've tried and done everything to be there for him. Much to my mother's objection I've temporarily withdrawn out of Vanderbilt and flew back to New York to nurse him the best I could at his home. I've solved and assembled puzzles, especially ones of the ocean and world maps. I've played old favorite records of his. I've read to him old newspaper clippings from his reporting days. When I have nothing else brainstormed I try telling him my favorite adventures of his, the ones that he loved accounting to me as a child. Only the latter seem to ever get a response from him. Or rather, a positive one. More than anything I just want him to smile as much as he can _while_ he can.

I decide to try that tactic. I enter his mint and dark green striped bedroom and notice him slowly rocking. His back faces me, as usual. The window is ajar; the off-white linen curtains sway away with the breeze. I find a slinky black blanket in the trunk in front of his twin bed and wrap it around him. With his yellow polo shirt I'm reminded of a bee's bands and gently smile. The mild amusement should make it easier for me to speak.

"Thank you, Martin," he speaks with an accent that betrays his Belgian origins. His voice cracks in a way to let me know he needs water.

"Sure thing, Grandpa," I say before going into the bathroom next door and returning with a little blue Dixie cup. He does not even move his arms as I direct the water to his lips and adjust his coke-bottle glasses higher up his nose.

"Hmm," he says in a clearer voice, "It appears I needed that after all."

I crunch the empty Dixie cup in my hand and place it in my left jean pocket. "You need lots of things, Grandpa. You deserve them."

Grandpa Tintin shakes his head. "No. I don't need lots of things."

It appears I won't be recounting his encounter with the Yeti after all. Not that that bothers me. He's already talked more than he did the last three weeks. "Is there anything you really want, then?"

"Just one thing… But I can't have it."

I knead a cramped wrinkly hand. He sighs in relief. "I can get it for you. Where can you buy it?"

He sadly smiles. "I'm sorry Martin. You can't buy what I want. What I want is a person… A certain person, to come visit me before this cancer finally kills me." A smile begins… only to sink back into a frown. "But it's just a silly daydream."

"Who?" I meet my green eyes with his. "Who do you want to see, Grandpa?"

"It's nothing important to you, my child. Besides, it's impossible for him to see me. I accepted that ages ago."

This frightened me. This cancer was affecting him worse than I thought. Before he was diagnosed he would stubbornly reach his goals in the most honest way possible. Even in his lowest periods that optimism and motive was still present. But now… He appeared to have completely given up on everything.

"Is it… Captain Haddock?" That broad bearded man was in so many old pictures and stories. It seemed logical.

He nods.

"I doubt he's dead. Maybe we can go back to Belgium and visit him. Or at least video call if you're too weak…"

"I have not seen him for forty-six—almost fifty—years, Martin. I miss him dearly. He was my… best friend in this world. I've wanted to see him again since we went out of touch… Even if he was alive, I have no idea where he is. Fire consumed his old home twenty years ago. But I guess my best chance for that reunion is in Heaven… And if that's the case then I hope I die very soon…"

He covers his red face with a hand and fights the urge to cry.

I place a hand on his shoulder. "Go ahead. Cry. It's alright."

Tears are wiped from his and my eyes with a finger. The drops that drip into my red shirt don't bother me.

"Did you know, Martin, that when I was younger everyone joked that I was immortal? This was before I had bags under my eyes of course…" He does not chuckle. Instead he still glassily looks to a ceiling corner once again. "It seemed that nothing could kill me: trains, bombs, hit in the heads. I was always back on my fee within days of an injury. Oh, if only those people could see me now at this age, with a terminal illness… And I was always in better medical condition than him. The captain would possibly be in his late nineties, early hundreds by now… If he was still alive for that matter. He was a hard smoker and an even harder drinker. If his lungs or liver did not give out first then his large heart certainly has…"

I run my fingers through my short sandy blond hair before looking him square in the eye. "But Grandpa, you told me to never give up. I just know that this man is alive. I can feel it in my heart. God has to be keeping you alive for some reason. I think it's so you can see the Captain one last time. I'll find him! I won't let you down—Grandpa?"

Light snoring fills the room. The clock radio reveals in neon blue numbers that it's his daily naptime. Four o' clock on the dot he always sleeps. Between snores I hear muttering about the captain as I place him back on his bed and shut the window.

I was not lying when I said that I believed Captain Haddock was still alive. I truly have this nagging feeling he is around somewhere.

My laptop fan whirrs when I boot that little black machine up on my paper and candy wrapper littered desk. My homepage's front line heading announces that Bianca Castafiore—another figure from my grandfather's travels—succumbed from a stroke she suffered seven months ago. I do not bother checking her age (I know it's old anyway) and promptly type "Captain Archibald Haddock" in my search engine. Thousands of pages come up, but most are from old articles talking mainly about Grandpa or information about the great Marlinspike Hall fire. Down and down the scroll bar goes, up and up the page number goes. Finally on page seventeen I find something. I whisk a pen from my front shirt pocket and write down an address in shiny slick black ink.

I have my first lead.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Don't worry; I haven't forgotten about this fic.

**Chapter Two**

2222

"Now tell me," Grandpa says, "What are you plotting in that head of yours?"

I place his reheated leftover lasagna on a skinny gray TV dinner tray to his bed's left side. Steam rises off the food. My eyes shift from side to side. "What are you talking about? I'm not plotting anything."

"Martin," he says sternly, "You have that look in your eyes that you only get when you're scheming something."

"Okay, you got me…" I dig my hand into a pocket and forward him the scrap of paper I wrote on earlier. I say with a smile, "You won't believe what I found earlier today…"

Grandpa readjusts his glasses and squints as his eyes travel along my messy scribbles. Then he stares at me like I just told him the sky was purple.

"Is this real?"

I nod. "That's what I found, Grandpa. Honest!"

Now it's as if the sky was rainbow colored. "And _where_ did you find this?"

"Where else? The Internet."

"The Inter—" Grandpa blanches. "Great snakes! What else did you uncover?"

Grandpa Tintin is deeply fascinated by technology and any new advances that come up at market, but there were some things about the World Wide Web that still frightened him. One of them was the risk of fraud, and having his golden reputation tarnished by identity theft.

"Don't worry, Grandpa! I didn't find his credit card information or whatever. Mostly I just found mentions of you and—"

"And who? Him?" He begins to shake uncontrollably. "Martin! How were Captain and I—"

"As partners…"

I don't realize what I just said until Grandpa clutches his chest and hyperventiliates. The look on his face as he faces me is of sheer horror I never saw from him. The sharp breathes coming from his mouth are so constant and strained that I fear he will have a heart attack before me. Why he's so frightened, I'm not entirely sure. Even after he found out his cancer was terminal did he not appear this alarmed. I assume that it has to do with his age and the culture he lived in. To be considered homosexual would've been a death sentence to one's career and life.

I place a hand on his quivering shoulder in an effort to calm him down. Instead he accompanies his growing panic attack with shaking his frail head as forceful as he can. "No, no, no… Martin, I—"

"No, Grandpa! Not at all like that! I meant partners as in fighting crime and that sort." I replace the hand on his chest with mine. His heart thumps so hard against his frail ribcage I partly fear it will burst out of him. "Please, I didn't see anything about Captain Haddock and you being… lovers."

Actually, while skimming the results I did see some rumors of them as partners of the amorous kind. I never saw Grandpa with another man (or with a woman, at that) growing up so I assume that it was just some silly rumor, like how Batman and Robin or Bert and Ernie are lovers just because they lived together. Grandpa did live with the captain at Marlinspike Hall for several years, I knew that much. Even Grandpa admitted that much. Surely my honest grandfather wouldn't had said that if they were indeed lovers. At least, I cannot see that when he's this frightened at what the Internet is saying about him. Like the previous cases, then, it would mean nothing went on beyond two friends being roommates.

...I think.

He wets his lips and stares square at me. "I pray you're telling me the truth, my child."

I forward my hands at chest level. "Oh, I am! Honest!"

Apparently this answer satisfies his inquiry. He rubs his fingers along closed eyelids before lifting up the temporarily forgotten paper lying on his lap. He ignores the cooling food and instead studies it again like an investigative reporter examining important documents. I see his sparse, wispy eyebrows flicker about and his eyes scatter from side to side and then side to side again.

"I have a question... Did you verify this address yet?"

I shake my head. "No. I wanted to show you it first. A surprise for you, of sorts..." I nervously chuckle.

"Well then... How about you call the number? Maybe it's still active."

I dial the number, one that I assume is from California if the accompanying address gives a hint, on my cell phone. Halfway through the second tone I realize that it would be best for Grandpa Tintin and I if the speaker was on. Just in case Captain Haddock himself picked up, of course.

Instead of a gruff, old sea captain, I get a woman on the other line. She sounds about a decade or so younger than grandpa, and speaks sharply with a softened-with-age Maine accent.

"Thundering—Hello? How in the world did you get this number?"

Grandpa's interest shows in his bed readjustment. My mouth opens into an imperfect "O." "Uh-"

"Oh, whatever. I'll just need to try to make this a non-listed number again..." She sighs. "Phone companies. Can't trust those leeches for nothing..." She perks up her voice as she continues, "So, tell me, since we're already talking... What would you like to know from me? 'Is this the right number?' Hmm?"

I swallow. I explain, lucidly and loudly, "Well... You see, I'm looking for someone."

"Uh-huh... And?"

"I-I just thought this was his number. Do you know a Captain Haddock by any chance?"

"Why, yes... He's my father."

A certain verb registers in my ears. "Did you say he '_is_' your father?"

"Of course! Why would I say he was my father when he's still alive and kicking as we speak? What would you like to know of him? If you want to know if you can interview him, I'll tell you right now that he would rather never talk to another reporter in his li-"

Before I can reply, Grandpa blurts out: "Colleen, it's me, Tintin. You used to call me carrot top when you were younger. Do you remember?"

The woman seems to choke on air. Then, she changes her tone from a confrontational grandparent to a cheerful child. "Oh my gosh... Are you k—Tintin? Is that you? Is that really you?" She begins to tear up over the phone. Grandpa starts to tear up too. Snowy the Seventh creeps into the bedroom, looks up and appears confused at his master's emotions.

Grandpa Tintin smiles through his tears. "Yes... Yes, it's me. Great snakes, the last time I saw you you were expecting another child..."

"I'm so sad you couldn't see that one come into the world, like Daddy and the professor got to. I'm so sorry, carrot top! Dad and I tried, but when we got back to Maine one last time to visit you at the-"

"Stop, Colleen... Stop," Grandpa says. "It's alright. The past is past. I forgive you both. This has all been a huge misunderstanding on both our parts, I'm sure."

"Yes, perhaps that's the case. We would've forwarded you an address after Marlinspike burned down, but we couldn't locate you after we were told you were released with no new contact info." The woman sniffs and mutters, "Thundering typhoons, if it wasn't for this stupid location crock-"

Grandpa signals for me to lift the concerned terrier into his lap. He pets the confused, whimpering dog across the back while saying, "It's alright. It's alright..."

"Well then, now that I finally know where the hell you've been, I now need to know if we should get together soon."

"Oh, we most certainly should. Very soon, ideally," he says.

"Yes indeed," I reply. "You see, Ms. Colleen, Grandpa, he's-"

"Oh, don't burst her bubble with such news," he tells me, "Will you and Captain like to come over, or should we?"

"You will have to," she answers immediately. "Daddy was just placed into a nursing home. He's fine, some mild dementia at worst, but I... I just couldn't support him, an ailing friend, my grandsons, and me on my own." She squeaks out an "I'm so sorry..."

I stare at my grandpa. Surprisingly, he's not as saddened as I thought he would be. "Then, I'll just visit him every day when I'm over there. I'm positive he'll appreciate it. Is it possible for Martin and I to come over by the end of the week?"

"You can come over tomorrow for all I care. I just know that we'll all be so happy to see you, carrot top."

I realize my own leftover turkey and mashed potatoes needs another run in the microwave and hand Grandpa the phone so that he can continue chatting and forming plans with the Colleen I never heard of. For someone he was seemingly so glad to talk to he had never mentioned her before. My elbows lay against the granite counter's edge as the microwave turntable spins like the unanswered questions forming in my head.


End file.
